Tooth and Nail
by arwenthemuse
Summary: Deep down, he doesn't blame her for being cautious with him, so raising one hand, he draws his nails back in.  "No nails."
1. Chapter 1

A/N: One of two planned parts. It drives me nuts that we can be so quick to forgive Nikola for being an idiot, but not John. My intention was to explore Helen's relationship with Nikola in the aftermath of season four in terms of trust and friendship. I didn't know how soon I would get around to finishing another part, so I've split it into two. Enjoy?

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><p>The first time is a flurry of passion, accompanied by a vigor that can only be explained by virtue of the fact that they are alive. No sooner has he crossed the threshold than he's breathed her name, tone full of relief and a little bit of pride. He smiles. "Good girl." He doesn't wait for permission; he simply <em>does.<em>

By the second time, they are already playing games again. Or rather, Nikola is playing games; Helen is being as elusive as ever. He's finally cornered her—literally and figuratively—and she succumbs to his advances with a crooked grin and half a laugh for his reassurances that she's hot when she's a genius, and remember that week in Marseille? Oh, she remembers Marseille—but not vividly enough to keep her from noticing that it's not his fingertips beneath her shirt, stroking her stomach: it's those claws of his.

For a woman who risks her life day in and day out, he finds it bewildering that she's so quick to push him firmly and quickly away, hands lingering on his shoulders, whole body tense, like she would be able to hold him back if he didn't respect her enough to behave himself. _"No nails,"_ she declares firmly, eyeing him with caution.

He chuckles nervously, making a broad gesture with his still-taloned hand. "Come now, He-"

"Or teeth," she finishes firmly, and when he hesitates for a moment, she tilts her head, glare askew, lips pulled into a look of disapproval he's all too familiar with. He realizes that she's giving him the benefit of the doubt. She's not invested in this, but she hasn't left. He continues to stare at her, bemused.

She doesn't trust him.

But then, why should she? He has a history of attending his own selfish desires. He likes to think he's grown, but he _was_poised to kill her a bare few years ago. It's been much longer for Helen, but he doesn't expect her to forget things like that. And to think, he'd thought he was in love with her then, even admitted it to her. At the very least, she thinks now that he's worth giving a second chance. Deep down, he doesn't blame her for being cautious with him, and so, raising one hand to face an open palm towards her, he draws his vampiric nails back in, watching her as her eyes flicker busily between his hand and face.

"No nails."

They aren't trysts; trysts suggest an appointed time and place. Nikola and Helen do not plan these rendezvous, and the third, fourth, fifth, sixth times are much the same. To her surprise, she does not have to repeat her rules about his nails. He's grown up some, though; with all that's happened recently, he's let himself fall into a Sanctuary-oriented routine, and it almost feels… good. William's as annoying as ever, and a vast majority of the residents are far below him (but who isn't?), but the techno-geek is somewhat endearing, and Helen is as captivating as ever. Having a schedule that doesn't involve being alone with his work is almost nice.

These dozen or so rendezvous are brief; she barely gives either of them time to recover before shooing him away or fleeing the scene herself. But Nikola is good with numbers, and although a few agonizing months of chasing after the woman have passed, he knows that sixteen is their turning point.

Her breathing is still a little heavy when he sits upright, preparing to excuse himself, as he has done thirteen times before—twice, she's come to his room, and excused herself in the dead of night. He doesn't mind giving her her space; but before he's managed to push himself out of her bed, her elbow is cocked, fingers wrapped softly around his arm. "Stay," may be a plea or an invitation; for once, he's not quite sure, and in the dark of the room, it's difficult to make out her expressions. Nevertheless, he reaches for her free hand, wrapping his fingers around hers and bending to kiss her shoulder experimentally.

Sixteen is three years after Ashley's death, twice over, and one-hundred and sixteen years once. She breathes deeply, a little more quickly than intended, and his hand follows the path of her arm upward until he pulls their bodies together. Holding Helen when she needs to be held is the smallest favor anyone can afford her. He nestles his face into her hair, prepared to remain until morning or she no longer needs or wants him, whichever comes first.

She sleeps in his arms for a handful of hours, but Helen never sleeps much. He blinks groggily awake when his arms fall away from her, and it quickly becomes apparent that she is just as disoriented. Unused to the a man's weight beside her, she blinks away sleep to gaze down at him and cocks her head as he raises himself up to an elbow.

She recognizes him, and suddenly, it's as if she can't quite decide what to do with her emotions. One side of her mouth twitches stubbornly downward, though she struggles to keep it at bay. It's the way he reaches over to squeeze her knee that finally prompts her to gain absolute control of herself. She breathes purposefully, nods at him, utters an uncomfortable "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it." He stares at her for a few moments longer before adding quietly, "I'll go."

He does. She cannot conceptualize the passage of time. She merely knows, quite suddenly, that he is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: This story ended much differently than I ever intended, and to be completely honest with you it's been sitting like this for a very long time now. I had changes I wanted to make, things I wanted to do, but none of those things ever got done. I feel like I copped out on this. But I also feel that I may as well post it... I don't think it's going anywhere else any time soon. Sorry for the wait, I guess?

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><p>Neither Nikola nor Helen knows the full extent to which she has placed her trust in him until, one night, Helen's body quakes violently against his. With her arms cast haphazardly around his shoulders and her face buried in the crook of his neck, she's more helpless than he's ever seen her. He wraps her up, pulls her in, doesn't let her go until the jerking sobs become little more than a quiet tremble punctuated by gasps and sniffles. This time, he knows no reason for the hysterical display - and like before, she offers no explanations.<p>

She will not see him for days, _weeks _thereafter, and although he presses (as gently as he is able), she is not interested in speaking to him. The facade slips; he grows agitated. Her own mood mounts.

When he finally manages to corner her again, she is in no mood to talk.

Sex with Helen is usually a give and take; she shifts smoothly between flipsides of the same coin, firm assertion of dominance to an easy cooperation so stately in nature she deserves to be worshipped. She does not meet extremes. But this time, when she is hurt, she seeks demonizing self-torment and his skin breaks and mends beneath her nails and teeth. She half-wills him to return the damage. Somehow, he knows that nothing will be the same if he does. She fights harder, but all he will do is pin her by her wrists in an attempt to subdue her as she writhes against him. His self-control is ingratiating.

"Nikola," she growls, contorting her arms as she tries to escape.

"You're being _much _too difficult," he utters back in a breathless undertone, crushing her lips with his; she bloodies him with her teeth.

She doesn't know how to ask him to hurt her. Begging is so far beneath her, and she's been demanding since the clatter of a button on the floor signified her desperation to get to him. She knows nothing better than to do what she's doing, and what she's doing clearly isn't enough. He's distracted, momentarily, by the taste of his own bitter blood in his mouth; she wrenches her arm free, and he hisses in pain as her nails dig into his back again.

Once she's worn herself down to bone, when she's done thrashing beneath him, he isn't sure whether it's more considerate to leave or stay. She won't meet his eyes, but she's usually quite forward in dismissing him, so he remains behind, conscientious of her avoidance.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles at length, too quiet for Helen, and he's not so sure she should be apologizing either, but he doesn't say anything. "You should go."

"Should I?"

She does not answer.

She has never kissed him gently before, but two evenings later she is already in his arms again, and it can only be that she is trying to apologize. One hand on his shoulder, the other cupping his face, there's something chaste and yet decidedly _not_about the way her mouth finds his. Nikola's only ever indecisive in the case of Helen Magnus; it's been that way since Oxford, and he imagines it will always be this way. Nevertheless, "What's gotten into you, Helen?" when she pulls away, is as coy as ever.

There's a flash of annoyance as habitual as his juvenility, but she relents in an instant, closing her eyes briefly with a sigh and a quick shake of her head. His hands are on her hips, though he's not making any moves, for once, and it only seems appropriate to drop her hands to his chest, quirking half a smile up at him.

"Sometimes, you're - ah." He quirks his own boyish smile, waiting. She pins him with a look that's only half-scolding, pursing her lips for just a moment before finally amending and finishing with a simple, quiet "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it," he replies. A shuffling blend of content and disorientation settles between them.


End file.
